GLADLY TURNING BITCHES OUT: Sometimes the stuff that gets posted in my COMMENTS section is just too good not to reprint. Here's my brother Eric holding forth on seeing Snoop Dogg on the ELLEN show:

Please don't ask why, but I happened to see Snoop do his new hit "Drop it like it's hot" about a year ago on the "Ellen" show. It was somewhat of a watershed pop culture moment for me.

At one point, Mr. Broadus danced up into the audience, composed mainly of young to middle aged females, many of whom were no doubt soccer moms. They were having a good time dancing to the rap music- some even got to dance solo with the man himself. And Snoop's doing his thing-singing about being a pimp and turning bitches out. They obviously didn't understand that Snoop would gladly turn any of these bitches out as well (explanation for Laurel [here my brother is giving a shout-out to his wife,, Laurel, who never gets anything like this]- this means Snoop would become their pimp and earn money when they prostituted themselves to men on the street).

I have to believe that Snoop's posse must have been watching this back in the green room and having the same type reaction I was having... almost as if they'd entered a parallel universe. Or perhaps they knew their message just needed time and that this was where it was all headed anyways.

(by the way, these types of juxtapositions seem to happen all the time these days- I think one of the first I can remember was when Rage Against the Machine played Saturday Night Live when they were hot- the final goodbye scene on stage showed the lead singer for Rage arm in arm with that night's host, Steve Forbes.)

I'M BAD, I'M NATIONWIDE: I'm in New York...but not for long.

Sitting in the JFK Red Carpet lounge. Flew in here yesterday morning -- up at five, on the way to the airport by six, on a plane at eight, presenting right after lunch, dinner, then out to the Hampton Inn at the airport. Did manage to have really good sushi with an old friend, so that was nice.

Now am awaiting a five-hour-or-so flight out to LAX (so my 5AM wake-up call here had me up at 2AM L.A. time -- oy), where I'll land and drive in to Burbank and chatter some more. Had the good sense not to make dinner plans tonight, so I'll probably just melt into my room in West Hollywood. More chattering tomorrow morning, then a bird back to Chicago in the late afternoon, arriving home around 8PM.

This kind of travel dulls the senses, the emotions, everything. It's not a big deal, not as if I'm doing anything so terribly hard. But it just kind of kicks your butt, little by little by little. I am amazed at how easily and vacantly I can wake up in a strange bed, get myself dressed and packed up, and stagger through security and onto a plane.

Nice thing on my upcoming flight is that it's a three-class flight -- United's "Premium Service" -- and I've got a cushy business class seat with my own power outlet. Several times ago I had the good fortune to watch NAPOLEON DYNAMITE on my complimentary personal DVD player. Alas, this flight will be filled with editing, e-mail triage and, hopefully, a cat nap or two.

It's a living!

STRANGER THAN FICTION: Good gracious do we live in ridiculous times.

THE NEXT BIG THING IN PARENTING: A little more than a year ago I stumbled upon a parenting philosophy that was so effective I considered writing a book so I could share it with the world. This morning, while my youngest son was objecting loudly to my dual diaper-changing and nose-wiping activities, it came back to me:

"Who cares what you think?"

I really think it's a franchise. I'm tellin' ya, just saying those words I felt a sense of empowerment.

HELMULLET MANIA: One day the sun will never set on the expanding Blind Camel empire.

LIVIN' LA VIDA LOCA: As much as I bitch about my travel, it can be cool sometimes. Just back from dinner on South Beach at Nobu. Pretty much one of the finest sushi restaurants in the world, in one of the coolest locales. Great company at my table, and NASCAR drivers Jeff Gordon (draped by hot babe) and Casey Mears (sans babe, possibly sitting with Brian Vickers, but not sure given his ballcap) one table over. Not bad.

WHICH DO YOU WANT FIRST? The good news: Kurt Busch wasn't drunk. The bad news: He's that big an asshole when's he's sober!

DUMB & DUMBER: I posted something loosely about "intelligent design" and science inside a comment a few posts ago, and I thought it was not bad...so I'm reposting it here, on accounta I think it might inspire some fun back-and-forth. Here goes:

The whole "intelligent design" debate is kind of funny to me. I have no problem if intelligent design is presented in the classroom for what it is: a non-scientific explanation invented after the fact by religious people who want to merge biblical prose with scientific knowledge. Something like that. I mean, evolution is only a theory, too. It works better than intelligent design, if you play by the rules of science. But the thing I always hated 'bout science class was that scientists thought that creating some kind of language and classification system and memorizing it somehow represented knowledge. Science and Mathematics are amazing and useful tools, but they're just a lot of hand-waving at the end of the day. They can be used to produce tremendous good, just like the Humanities. But there's nothing absolute about the blueness of blue or the hydrogenness of water. It's just semantic hand-waving, useful for communication and even exploration, but a million miles short of any kind of absolute explanation of the intrinsic nature/meaning of life.

Discuss...

UNHOLY ALLIANCE: When Terrell Owens and Jesse Jackson get together, which one looks worse by association? I call it a toss-up.

I also enjoyed Ralph Nader's insane two cents. Wow, I was totally wondering about his take on this. So good of him to weigh in.

Still waiting to hear from Janeane Garofalo...

PLEASE JUDGE ME: I often enjoy identifying my own character flaws, and I just stumbled on a major one. Here it is: As much as I'm into the NASCAR these days, as much as I don't mind wearing a NASCAR ballcap here and there, sporting my AC/DC-looking NASCAR t-shirt, and playing NASCAR Hot Wheels with my son in public areas...I still don't want to be pigeonholed. I want points for my eclecticism. Like Whitman, my ralling cry is something along the lines of "I contain multitudes," or whatever whoever said.

Back in the day, in high school and college, one of the ways I was able to advertise my catholic tastes was via my "wall stuff." My friggin' walls in my room were a testament to my good taste, to my wide-ranging interests and enthusiasms. Walk in my room and you were treated to a page ripped from INTERVIEW (some fashion photograph of the latest Edie Sedgwick-looking model), one of my poems writ large via photocopier, a ticket stub or backstage pass from some obscure rock show or another, a signed 8X10 glossy of Don Knotts or John Ritter, an old Polaroid of me in a high-school band, etc. It was all there, all of me, all my many moods and attitudes, etc. I remember distinctly an episode where I was trying to woo a girl -- this is way back in my Cincy days, when I had no money and no game but a ton of energy -- and she walked into my room and was like, "Wow, that's really incredible, all that stuff up on your walls." And my roommate, one of my oldest pals, just sort of rolled his eyes and chimed in with, "Yeah, you could call it that."

My younger brother Casey has, at times, isolated one of his own character challenges as not liking to be judged. I'm sorta the opposite: I'm dying to be judged, so long as I can kibbitz with the judges, glad-handle 'em, have some one-on-one interview time, turn on the old charm, etc. My worry is not that I'll be judged -- c'mon, lookie-lookie, I love it! -- but that I'll be misjudged. As the song says, "Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood."

And I was reminded that this is an issue of mine just recently, when a new Blind Camel commenter (and the author of a captivating blog about marriage woes) opened her post here with the remark that she didn't care much for NASCAR (or something like that). She went on to say some hugely nice things about your humble blogger, supernice, but for the life of me I haven't been able to get over the fact that, for her, I may have been pigeonholed as "that NASCAR guy."

Funny, it just occurs to me that this blog...have I written this before...I'd swear I have...that this blog is just another example of my "wall stuff," tacked up on the ethers for all to behold.

No wonder my old pal never reads this. He's seen it all before.

SULLY GOES BIGTIME: As you no doubt know by now, I'm a huge fan of Andrew Sullivan's blog, and so it was with great interest that I read about its impending move to the TIME corporate servers. In a nutshell, TIME will host Andrew's blog and provide the kind of back-office support that an entity of its great size is made to provide. According to Andrew, he'll maintain full editorial control and ownership. This sounds like a win/win to me and only serves to intensify my sense of brand loyalty toward TIME, an entity which I've long considered one of the best of its kind.

NO MORE SCIENCE HATERS NEED APPLY: Let me go on record early: In '08 I'm looking for a candidate that's unabashedly pro-stem cell research. In fact, I'm looking for someone who can reconcile his or her spiritual wishes (faith, whatever) with scientific reality. Do I think science is the be-all and the end-all? Nope. Do I think there's a place for religion in one's governing temperament? Indeed. But do articles like this make me pissed off that Bush 43 has been a foot-dragger? You bet.

If the Dalai Lama were more of a hawk on defense, he might be my guy...

BUSCH TO THE BENCH: Dumbass gets what he deserves. I'd love to see the video of him lipping off to the cops. You just know he was giving it the "do you know who I am" treatment.

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS: One of the reasons I'm loathe to consider leaving Chicago (for better weather and/or career options) is this: I get to watch the Bears/Cubs on TV pretty much all the time. Sometimes I wonder how my brother in Ann Arbor and my dad in St. Clair Shores can stand missing the Bears game. I'm sitting HERE watching, feeling totally excited and immersed, and I can't believe they're not sitting THERE wondering, wishing, missing.

Such is the grip of sports.

WHAT A STROKE: Further evidence that defending NASCAR Nextel Cup champ Kurt Busch is a total doof.

SAY IT AIN'T SO, GOB: I may have turned half-Republican of late, but I can still dust off my elitist bonafides from time to time. And this story reminds me of one of the bedrock theses of my young-adult life: The mass of Americans have no friggin' taste.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT is like the one good situation comedy on network televison in the past decade, and nobody's watching. You can't blame the network for cancelling it. I just marvel that Leno and EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND are what passes for many for the mass of Americans. Maybe my Inner Snob will reintroduce me to my Inner Democrat.

CUE BEAVIS-LAUGH: Whoa! Check out the name on this guy who's the third-string center for the Clippers. (Heh heh, heh heh heh.)

ROADBLOGGING: I've been a lazy blogger of late, but it's not because I don't love you.

Last week I was in Seattle. It was foggy and raining, believe it or not. And yet there's something about foggy and rainy in Seattle that feels just right. Seattle is a Fall or a Winter, if she had her colors done. Had a great dinner at a place called Wild Ginger, an Asian-Fusion hotspot downtown.

Started this week in Laguna Niguel, at a conference at the Ritz there. Hertz slapped me into a Jaguar, which was nice. Spoke at a conference, then rolled up to LAX to fly to where I am now, Sacramento. Turns out I'm here on the day the state votes up or down on their Governator, more or less.

What else? My son turned one, developed another double ear infection, decided he hated cupcakes. (Good for him. Me too!)

My wife threw a fantastic little shindig at our overstuffed, undersized urban hipster casa, a fiesta rife with sushi and rice crackers and old friends.

I finished another Hard Case Crime book, finished THE GAME. I fell in love with The Postal Service.

Anyway, the lid is back off my posting again. This was one of those "break-the-seal" missives, aimed at getting me back off the schneid. More from a Red Carpet Club near you soon.

TO PRAISE THEO, NOT TO BURY HIM: I love the Theo Epstein story: Boy-wonder gets promoted to GM of his hometown ballclub, takes 'em to their long-awaited World Series championship.

From everything I've heard and read, he sounds like a heck of a guy. I think I'd like him. And yet...I've had about enough of this drama, the idea that this story is anything more than a new general manager for a baseball team.

C'mon, guys. "This will make me stronger," says Epstein. The principal owner Henry near tears. (It's all in the story, in hand-wringing commentaries across every medium.)

Thing is, all the talk about having to put body and soul into the job, the sacrifices...this ridiculous world of professional sports where the coaches and execs give up a normal family life for some kind of manufactured glory...it's, well, silly.

I'm a sports fan. I get what it is to be carried away by the uberstory, the metastory of your favorite athlete or team. But this thing, this fandom, is a kind of willful suspension of disbelief. It's not real. Somehow I'm not so sure Epstein, who's been doing this since he was 18, remembers that this whole mess is over a dumb job that pays him a fortune. The kid was blessed. Here's hoping he's blessed again. And even more, here's hoping he learns how to lighten up a bit. (Granted, the whole Red Sox Nation needs a chill pill, which is one of the reasons Manny's going to be Manny somewhere other than Boston next year.)

PUSH-UPDATE: Although it's been a while since I last mentioned my ongoing push-up campaign, rest assured I'm still on the job. Just knocked out 62 pretty good ones on the floor of my Hilton Seattle hotel room. Going down for another set, minimal rest...

(pause)

Okay, only 25 more, which means that 62 effort wasn't half bad. One more try...

(pause)

25 more, and I'm wiped. Not bad.

Pity I can't muster enough willpower to go for a run. I have a cold. Sniffle.

SI, TIMEX: Look, it's a bit of an understatement to say that Bush 43 is something of a polarizing figure. (And I know, he's a bumbler, a stooge, in bed with crazy Christians, etc. Let's not go there.)

Nonetheless, my brother Casey forwarded me an article this morning that reminds me what an immensely, intrinsically likable figure he can be. I love this:

When the reporter from La Nacion asked Bush to show him what he carries, the president stood up, fished in his pockets, then dramatically pulled his hands out holding nothing but a white handkerchief that he waved playfully in the air.

"Es todo," Bush told the Spanish-speaking reporter, meaning the handkerchief was all. "No dinero, no mas. No wallet."

I'll save you the effort, my friendly commenters. Here's your joke:

"His pockets are just like his head -- empty."

There you go. No charge.

GET YOUR MOUTH SHUT: In an article about ongoing teen riots in Paris, French "Equal Opportunities Minister" Azouz Begag has this to say:

"It is by fighting the discriminations of which young people are victims that we will re-establish order, the order of equality. Not by bringing out more CRS (riot police)," Begag told the newspaper Liberation in an interview.

My reaction, in reading that quote, says everything about where my politics are today, versus where they were even five years ago.

Five years ago I would have been right with him, I bet. Root causes. Oppression. Che Guevara! Billy Bragg!

Now I just look at that quote and think, Bulllllll-shit. There are always some idiots looking for a reason to flip over cars and light shit on fire. NBA Championship. Social ills. Mad at the president. You name it. Bottom line is that idiots who are lighting cars on fire are idiots. Put me in the Zero Tolerance camp. Bring on the riot cops!

BTW, the title of this post is a direct quote once uttered by Mike Ditka to a reporter. I love it.

CUE THE STEVE MILLER: Throwing stuff in a suitcase this morning for a quick run (if there is such a thing) to Seattle. Dinner downtown tonight, then running out to Redmond for a meeting tomorrow. Then dinner back in the city Wednesday night, followed by an early AM flight back to Middle America.

My new standard work ensemble includes some stylish black trousers, a sleek black t-shirt, and a mini-V-neck black sweater with subtle black piping running vertically. Yes, ich bin ein Sprocket, or something like that. Black seems to go nicely with black. Plus it makes your average teen luminary seem that much more luminous, or so I hear.

More from the Red Carpet Lounge later today.